“Situational depression is a short-term form of depression that can occur in the aftermath of various traumatic changes in your normal life, including, retirement, loss of a job, the death of a relative or close friend, or leaving the Dominican Republic. Doctors sometimes refer to the condition as adjustment disorder.” (Google)
And I have got to adjust.
Yes, I’m writing about the Dominican Republic again, so shoot me. No. I won’t apologize. Not in the least. With today’s ideas of affection, I can have an attachment to a country. “They” say it happens – and now, “they” are correct.
I’m in the garage having a cigar, cell phone to my right, a copy of The New Yorker is to my left, notes are on my lap. The weather is cooler than usual, the atmosphere a bit dank. It is relatively quiet. I decided not to turn on the radio.
I’ve been reminiscing about my trip to the DR. It’s been a full week since my body left the island, but really, my heart is still there. (Sing it for me, Tony!) Sentimental? Yeah, you could say that.
Yes, it was a working vacation of sorts. But the small particles of the journey refuse to fall off the prongs of my memory. I can still see you – the faces, the cities, the cigar factories, the workers, the buildings, the chickens, the dogs. It’s all there in stunning Vistavision!
Hell, maybe I’m just an old fart who has a romantic streak in him a mile wide. I see that kind of individual all the time in the shops I visit. Guys have this idyllic idea of what the cigar broker’s life is like, and they calcify that notion in their minds. Go! Do it! Get a real taste of reality and if you still have this starry-eyed perception – great. It is fantastic for me. But for you? I can’t say.
But I have been to the mountaintop, and I am missing a piece of me.
“Keep busy!” That’s a realistic approach, uh? Then my mind can occupy itself with other things that will force out the ideas I have already stored in there. I tried that. It don’t work.
“Then go back,” some have suggested. “I shall,” is my reply.
“Snap out of it!” “I can’t.” (Pause.)
“Get back to reality, man.” To that harsh advice I say, “”What is reality?” Shades of Sandra Dee’s portrayal of Gidget.
“You’re right,” I concede. I do have control over my thoughts. And that is why I’m in the garage, smoking a cigar and musing about them. I’m reassessing what my reality is? And brother that flood of truth is coming – visits by sales managers, end-of-year numbers, payments that need to be chased down, and on and on and on.
Indeed, if you saw what was on my plate beside the above, you would be overwhelmed. If you weren’t, I’d have to call you insensitive or callous. But I CAN handle it. I have and I will. Ha ha! My motivation? BILLS! BILLS! BILLS! Enough said.
No, the thoughts of altering my reality have been set in motion and the linking of escapist ideas are swirling in my mind just ever so anxious to congeal into a final solution.
I ask myself, “Why not alter reality to fulfill the obligations to the status quo, but also to satisfy the promises I made to me? Ah, what a concept. A few years back, the latter was a foreign idea. But ever since I left the DR, it has become a welcome thought.
Basking in change is a bit unnerving, but it is the progenitor of what my reality has become. And really, that is the situation.